


those are pearls that were his eyes

by crownlessliestheking



Series: Spooky Elf Jail [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cryptid Maglor, Elements of Body Horror, Events of the First Age, F/M, Gen, Horror Elements, Horror Elves, LoTR twt strikes again, Mild Gore, Music, Oath of Fëanor, noise - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: He comes with the fog.
Series: Spooky Elf Jail [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981931
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	those are pearls that were his eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter YET AGAIN.

_Crushed and filled with all I found_   
_Underneath and inside Just to come around_   
_More, give me more, give me more_

_-_ If I Had A Heart, Fever Ray

* * *

The fog rolls in off the ocean, thick as a blanket, heavy as a sword. Shroudlike, it settles over the Grey Havens, emptied of their boats, a town of ghosts long-gone whose presence still lingers in elegant arches, in empty beds and tables without food. It creeps over the hills and turns the world to white, blocks out noise in favor of silence.

The fog is mordant and it is furious. It stings the insides of noses and throats, miniature lances waging a war already lost. It makes eyes water and burn, when the stink of dead fish rises, and then when it carries with it ash from an Age long past and the foul reek of corpses left to rot unburied or worse, left to burn and become corpses. The smell of charred flesh is not one that those scattered few at the feet of the tower recognize, but when they feel the air thicken, grow heavy with expectation, they know to shut their doors and windows and burn their own candles, heavy and herbal, and let smoke fill the rooms of their cozy homes up to the brim to keep the fog out.

(It always finds a way.)

They do not play music, when the fog comes. They sit, and they tell stories to their children, to each other, they talk of the sun and the merry old Man in the Moon and how he came down for a drink, merry words made wary whispers. They tell stories of the War of the Ring, of the Great Walk, of the great heroes of the Shire and of Men. They talk of Elves, but they have never seen one, so they speak only of what they know- Legolas Greenleaf, still bright in their memories. The Shire, all green comfort and family, the scars of the land fading. They speak of Frodo the Ringbearer and Mayor, who went away across the sea, and they speak of old Elanor's father, the best Gardner there ever was, Mayor in his own term, gone across the sea one misty day to follow his love as invited. They speak of Queen Arwen and the court in the South, the generosity of the new King who was once a Ranger that protected their families. They speak of light things, gardens and gossip and the weather, until they cannot speak anymore.

And then when they are done, when the words have run dry and even the chatter of children cannot fill the silence, they listen.

He comes with the fog. They stay inside, for they do not wish to see him. But they see his shadow, twisted dark and blackened at the hand, haloed around with sick light. They see the gleam of his eyes from afar, if they are not careful, if they take too long to get inside or linger too late at night out by the sea (though the folk there avoid it more often than not; boats, they say, are not for but the bravest and perhaps most peculiar among them), and it is terrible to look upon, brighter and purer than the sun, like two stars plucked from the sky itself and seared into a skull. The light shines through his skin, they whisper, paper thin with age. He does not eat, they say. He eats children, they say. He dives into the waves and devours fish raw, pries open oysters with his fingers and slurps up the flesh, tears into the throat of the seabird with his teeth and the blood drips down his chin, stains his clothes. He always leaves a trail of it, they say.

If they look closely the next day, they will see perfect footprints of dead grass, withered to black rot, where he has stepped, in the middle of perfectly verdant fields. If they look closely an hour after, each step contains a puddle, slick and reeking and metallic. If they look closely at what he touches, they might see the smudge of crimson then rust against the petal of a now-withered flower, against the roughened bark of a tree, too high up for any of them to have done it. Blood is on his hands, and there is enough of it to drown them. There’s enough of it to drown him.

But the fog eats all sound, and they use the silence to tell his coming. They know that when the gulls cease their cries and the harp strings play, mournful enough to drive even the most stubborn to tears, that he is near. They tell their stories. They stay cheerful. Their voices are candle flames in the night. But even candles must flicker out.

And when they are silent, when they are listening, they hear it.

They hear the echo of ancient words in a long-dead language, a voice that rings like the striking of a bell, floating above all others, resonant in will and glory- a voice like no other, crying out words that sound like lighting splintering a tree. They hear other voices joining and rising hopeful, and it makes the hair on the back of their necks rise. It makes them thankful that they have the light of the fire, that their homes are well-built and tucked away.

Then comes the crackle and pop of wood in flame, starting so soft it blends with their own fires. But the screams start soon after, wicked clashes of metal, bodies hitting the floor and eyes sightless and skulls rent and cracked, brains splattered upon bright steel twisted to evil deeds. They know violence in their tales. But not like this. There was no Shire to Scour, this was a foul deed, and it leaves a bitter, bilious taste in their mouths. They chew mint, when they hear the screams. They breathe in deeply and ignore the scent of the sea, comforting brine now stinging and clinging and sick.

Fire and death and despair, all in the plucked strings of a harp, all with fingers worn down to the bone. There is no singing, not anymore. It rises and falls as waves do. Crests with the roars of ancient monsters that set the stones rattling, makes them shudder in their homes and cover their ears. The death knell of thousands, though they do not know it as such; tears spring to their eyes at the next crest, worse this time, and the percussion of steel striking steel striking stone, the lament of a thousand voices as one for the dead that number far, far more.

But these are not the worst. These are a grief, distant, that they can understand. If they could put it into words, if they knew the events, they would say ‘these are the things that happened.’ They would say ‘the rest are what we happened _to_.’ They would not call themselves victims, but they know what it is like to be beholden to a higher evil, and the stories keep that alive.

The worst comes slowly, in trickles. The worst comes with the whisper of pen to paper, words once more forged, words pleading, words cold and demanding and unyielding. And deep within, words stirring to life once more. An echo of the lightning strike made twisted and sinister, a knife to the heart. There is steel, again, and screams, and they know it now, but there is worse- there is the cry of two names, over and over again, strange and Elven- _Elured! Elurin!_ \- and the rustle of leaves, the pad of footsteps and claws against stone, and no, no response to the caller.

(There are others dead, but their names are not spoken. There is no grief, no horror, only numbness, and that is worse, for it sits on the tongue and paralyzes the heart. This, they do not understand. This, they cannot comprehend.)

Then again. There is more, and there is nothing but exhaustion left now. The lightning crackles, chains around them now, and hisses to life at the slightly provocation. It is a snake, cunning. It is a spider, madly chittering, starving. There are more words, words to forswear what is sworn, words to cage the beast and break the storm. They fall, arrhythmic, clanging like a fallen pot against the floor. He comes with screams again, women, children, all desperate, and this makes them weep again, with fury and grief, too. This is the Shire, scoured, this is evil brought to the doorstep of those undeserving.

(There are two voices, children, and one whose name they even know from the legends, but it is not that Elrond, surely, sounding like a faunt and hesitantly calling someone Father, the lone word wielded like a whip.)

This is not yet the worst. The trumpets sound next, orchestral thunder, a storm breaking, a wave crashing to shore. The drums are drums now, loud and vital like a heartbeat. The drums are feet, shod, marching in step in tune with purpose that makes the earth quake. The drums are armor hitting armor hitting sword and bow and spear, and victory in the sharp cry of a bird, flying on swift wings.

This is not yet the worst.

The worst is the silence, the worst is the sound of footsteps trying to be soft, the heavy breathing, the creak of rope as a noose tightens, the rustle of a tent. The worst is the silence, a creeping, dreading thing, the shutting of a box that feels like the end of a life. The worst is the sheer agony that it brings, the sound of flames unholy, whips crackling, screams echoing in a single, pure, clear note that sings above all else. The worst is the single word, ‘Goodbye’, and the sickening thud of something, hitting something (and only two would have been able to recognize that noise, those two long gone who had stood upon the Cracks of Doom and heard a thin, twisted body hit molten rock, and then the hiss of burning skin and the reek of flesh joining the stink of sulfur and dust and death) and then silence again, broken only by the thudding-drum sound of a heart out of sync, the music still above it all in perfect harmony, not even wavering, not suffering at all.

But there’s another sound rising, a howl, a scream that tears out of a throat, vocal cords ripping themselves even as the dagger pricks of those words turn inwards, always inwards. The scream crescendos with the violence of viscera yanked out of a carcass, mounts and mounts into nothing but bloodredagonyragefurylossgriefloneliness, and-

And then nothing but the sound of waves, familiar and soothing and achingly lonely. Grief is an ocean.

This is the worst.

This leaves them raw, inside and out, and even when the fog seeps away and their ears stop ringing, the silence lingers in the little town under the Hills where the White Towers stand proud.

They do not know who he is, they do not know the root of his grief other than it is, in part, himself. They are afraid of him.

But they are a kindly folk, and hardy, and they do what they must.

He has no name among them, and he has no wish to tell it to them. But they leave things for him, still. A cloak, embroidered with flowers as is their style, in rich blue cloth. Warm, waterproof. Bread, freshly baked and tucked into a basket along with meat and cheese, and often a pie, or a jar of jam or preserves. Never shoes. Supplies, once, for a harp, but those went untouched. The rest is always taken, with shells and trinkets left in their place, and the hobbits breathe a sigh of relief for having offered payment and seeing it accepted.

He hasn’t hurt them.

But he could.

And so he comes and goes, bringing nothing but his grief, clouded and consumed by it. And so he will come and go, wearing a path of blood and withered grass through the hills that none shall touch and all shall avoid, until he’s nothing but the impression of his loss and the fear of others.

(He knows they are afraid.

(But there is precious little of him left enough to care. Sound and silence cannot describe the whittling down of the self, the splintering of the soul, trading pieces away bit by bit for a promise that cannot be fulfilled, that never should have been made. He has spent his last words on the lament of his people, his brothers, and his last tears with them, and it has passed on to history, but what does the poet do when words are not enough, when his craft has so betrayed him? What does the poet do when some have lost all meaning, when ‘brother’ is a thorny thing to think, twisted by anger and regret and relief, when ‘father’ is even worse?

The answer: He does nothing.

The answer: He swears his last Oath. He raises his voice to the slate-gray ocean hallowed with burning light, a sea under which the graves of everyone he knows has sunk, and he forswears speech altogether. He repents. His tears join the sea, and still it waits, thirsty.

And in the hollow inside him, the words still slumber, and they are starving.)


End file.
